Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.

It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.